The Lion's Den
by wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: Hannibal Lecter receives a letter from a Dr. Jonathan Crane, leading him on a journey to Gotham City and Arkham Asylum.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to _Batman_ or _Hannibal._ I also do not own the rights to any of their adaptions, including but not limited to: novels, comic books, television shows, and films. I do not own the rights to any character(s) presented in this story, save for any original character(s) that I have created. This story was written purely for entertainment and I am not profiting financially from its creation.

**A/N:** Although I am not usually a reader or writer of alternative universe fanfiction, I recently found myself contemplating how interesting it would be if Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Dr. Jonathan Crane were to meet. I started thinking about how awesome it would be if they were to work alongside one another at Arkham Asylum, and an idea was born. I felt that their interactions would be _amazingly_ fun to write, so I decided to go for it and write my first AU story! I've been a fan of the Lecter films and books since high school, and I'm also a fan of the _Hannibal_ television show starring Mads Mikkelsen. It is that version that I will be bringing into this story, and it will take place in a Nolanverse setting.

I apologize for the particularly lengthy introduction—I assure you that future author's notes won't be quite so long. I hope you enjoy the story, and as always reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!

**The Lion's Den: Chapter One**

Dr. Hannibal Lecter seldom found individuals or events to be "strange"; "strange" was a term often employed by people with little experience and even less imagination, and Lecter could certainly never be accused of possessing either of those undesirable traits. Describing something as "strange" or otherwise abnormal allowed the uncreative to dismiss whatever it was that they failed to understand, be it a person or an incident or a conviction, and cast it aside with a flimsy label of distaste rather than attempt to reach any sort of comprehension or enlightenment. A man with Lecter's amount of education and experience would only use the term in the most exceptional of circumstances, and after years of encountering patients with a plethora of illnesses and ailments (not to mention his own private recreational activities and meal procurement), "exceptional" was becoming more and more rare.

But as Lecter sat at his desk and flipped through his mail, he came across an item that he felt was deserving of the title of "strange": a thin, crisp white envelope, unremarkable save for the delicate penmanship in which the addresses were printed (according to Lecter's eye, the writer had used a rather expensive fountain pen) and the red waxen seal imprinted with a large, decorative "C" used to close the envelope. He could not recall the last time he had received a letter in paper form—his associates unfortunately preferred the technological (and in his opinion, much less professional) correspondence route of e-mail to send messages—and he not only appreciated the traditional avenue but the aesthetics and care placed into the envelope's presentation. It was not only unusual, it was _strange_—but in the most delightful sense. He was actually _excited _to discover more about the letter, like a child eager to rip the wrapping paper off of a birthday present; he scanned the letter for a return address, blissfully curious as to who would send him such an unexpected treat.

**Jonathan Crane, Ph.D**

**Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane**

**1845 Valdemar Road**

**Gotham City, New Jersey 00701**

Lecter had been gifted with a vibrant memory, and yet he could not recall ever hearing mention of Crane or the institution; not during his extensive reading of medical essays and textbooks, nor during the countless hours of conversations he had held with his colleagues in the psychiatric field. It was quite possible that he had been unaware of the existence of either until the moment he read the envelope—but if that was the case, what reason could Crane have for contacting him? He supposed it was within reason that Crane had read a published work of Lecter's and wished to discuss it with him, but his gnawing intuition found that unlikely; surely a man dedicated to such professionalism and sophistication as the envelope's presentation implied would have more pressing needs to occupy his time than mailing other psychiatrists to discuss essays.

There was only one way to find out—and a simple one at that.

Lecter slid the blade of his letter opener across the top of the envelope, exposing a sheet of folded paper. The action caused him a slight pang of distress—the envelope _was _beautifully put together, and he hated to see beauty of any sort being destroyed. With gentle fingers he lifted the letter from the envelope and unfolded it carefully across the top of his desk, careful not to soil the paper with his skin's oils. He was extremely pleased to see that the letter had been written in the same exquisite penmanship as the envelope instead of a repetitive computer font; he poured over the letter with eyes hungry almost to the point of greed, drinking in the letter's contents.

_Dear Dr. Lecter,_

_I have a matter of some urgency and the utmost delicacy to discuss you with you. I humbly request that you contact me at 201-010-1973 at your earliest convenience. My office hours are from 09:00 AM to 06:00 PM; messages left outside of the designated time period will be answered promptly._

_I eagerly await your correspondence._

_Sincerely,_

_Jonathan Crane, PhD._

Lecter read the letter a total of five more times before folding the paper and returning it to its envelope; he wanted to be absolutely certain that he had not overlooked a hidden message within its minimal contents. He pressed a finger to his lips in a pensive gesture, his mind racing with infinite possibilities. What could a man he had never even heard of before have to discuss with him? And what did "some urgency" and "the utmost delicacy" imply?

He had gone through painstaking lengths to ensure that his leisurely activities were never discovered, and it bordered on impossibility that a man in New Jersey could have learned his secret when he had managed to successfully conceal it from those who saw him on a regular basis...unless Crane was wont to traveling. Still, he had never once felt as if he were being observed, and Lecter was a _highly _perceptive man.

But if Crane did not have the desire or the knowledge to unveil Lecter's secret, then what _were_ his intentions?

Lecter glanced at the clock on his desk; it was half past one in the afternoon, and he did not have another appointment for half an hour. Using his iPad, he punched "dr. jonathan crane" into Google's search engine: the results yielded nothing but Facebook profiles, and although he did not know Crane he could not imagine that a man who would take the time to mail a well-crafted letter would have any interest in using a social networking website. A search for "arkham asylum" proved only slightly more fruitful, with a few online articles from _The Gotham Times_ offhandedly mentioning the institution. He put his iPad away, no more knowledgeable than he was moments ago; although disappointed, he was not surprised by the lack of information. Indeed, he had almost _expected_ it. This Crane was a mystery, and a mystery he would remain until Lecter received the answers to his questions.

Again, there was only one way to find out—and a simple one at that.

Taking a deep breath of resolve, Hannibal Lecter reached for the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to _Batman_ or _Hannibal._ I also do not own the rights to any of their adaptions, including but not limited to: novels, comic books, television shows, and films. I do not own the rights to any character(s) presented in this story, save for any original character(s) that I have created. This story was written purely for entertainment and I am not profiting financially from its creation.

**A/N:** I'm very excited to see that the reception to this story has been overwhelmingly positive! Thank you so much for reading, and an especially big "thank you" to those providing feedback!

**The Lion's Den: Chapter Two**

The shrill sound of a ringing phone pierced through Dr. Jonathan Crane's brain and interrupted his train of thought; he had been mulling over his most recent experiment and questioning whether he should move forward with the test subject currently stowed in Arkham Asylum's basement before the rather unpleasant noise had disturbed him. There was no shortage of potential variables in Arkham, and his position as the asylum's administrator made it highly convenient to select any patient of his choosing for the dubious honor of assisting him with his work. Participation was not voluntary, but the inmates were so heavily sedated during their ascension into the basement that struggling would have been nigh on impossible, in addition to being the farthest thing on their drugged minds; by the time the medication had worn off and they realized they had been placed in their new home in the now-deserted cell block—formerly used to house high-risk inmates until the late 1980's, when those pesky activists labeled them "inhumane" and demanded better accommodations—it was far too late to protest; any screams would have gone unheard and unanswered, and they would spend the rest of their days at the mercy of Crane and his increasing supply of fear toxin.

It was a noble cause, to be sure, and frankly Crane considered their involvement to be gracious on his part—he was sparing them years of cramped, sunless confinement, and bringing meaning to lives otherwise dedicated to criminal misdeeds of varying degrees. These endeavors were not without risk, both to his career and to his freedom, but so far he had managed to remain undetected and did not find it likely that he would be discovered in the near future.

The phone rang again, and this time Crane reached forward and lifted the receiver from its cradle. In most circumstances, he would dismiss the ringing and continue with whatever task was presently at hand, allowing his answering machine to pick up the slack; however, on this occasion he had an inkling as to who the person on the other line would be, and he was _most_ eager to speak with them.

He lifted the phone to his ear. "You've reached Dr. Jonathan Crane's office," he said smoothly. "Dr. Crane speaking."

"Dr. Crane." The voice on the other line was thick with an accent that Crane could not place, their tone cordial but firm. "This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I received your letter this afternoon."

Crane's lips curled upwards into a smile. "Hello, Dr. Lecter. I've been looking forward to hearing from you."

* * *

"I'm afraid that you have me at an advantage, Dr. Crane," Lecter said. "As embarrassing at it is, I must admit that I have no recollection of you or your institution." His voice was calm and collected, his tone polite yet firm; he gave no indication that he had been in any way affected by Crane's letter, and spoke as if his phone call was made as a gesture of etiquette rather than out of any indication of genuine interest.

"Oh, we've never met," Crane said silkily. "Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Lecter."

"I see. Am I to understand that you are familiar with my work?"

"Very much so. I've read many of your published essays." There was a beat of silence before Crane continued. "I found your insight to be..._refreshing_."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Especially your thoughts on those determined to be 'criminally insane'—although I gather from your writing that you are not a fan of that particular label?"

"Not at all. I find it to be simplistic at best, in addition to being a staggeringly unreliable diagnosis."

There was another quiet pause, and this time Lecter seized the opportunity to press forward. "I do not mean to be rude, Dr. Crane, but surely you did not request that I contact you in order to discuss psychiatric terminology?"

The sound of Crane's light laughter floated through the receiver, and Lecter's grip tightened slightly; the laughter sounded forced and unnatural, as if its owner was not accustomed to partaking in the action and was simply replicating what he had seen others produce. He was still not sure what he thought of Crane, but he was beginning to realize that he was not a man to be underestimated—he suspected that many had made that mistake in the past, and that Crane had reaped the benefits of their folly. Lecter had learned long ago that an underestimated man is a dangerous man, and it was a philosophy that had served him well during his hidden ventures into darkness.

"Of course not," Crane replied, and Lecter could practically hear him smirking on the other line. "As a matter of fact, I sent you the letter because I wanted to discuss whether or not you would be interested in temporary employment at Arkham Asylum."

For the second time that day, Lecter found himself taken aback; he was not a man who was easily flummoxed, and it irritated him that Crane had been able to invoke confusion in him not once, but twice. Lecter prided himself on being able to think one-step-ahead of most people—although they generally fancied themselves unique, in truth the majority of humans were a predictable, boring lot—and he was beginning to think that perhaps he was so used to interacting with the mundane that he had forgotten what it was like to converse with someone even the slightest bit remarkable. He was not yet sure if Crane was a remarkable man, but he was certainly a _strange_ one.

He would, of course, never allow Crane the privilege of knowing that he had caught him off guard.

"With all due respect, Dr. Crane, I believe there has been a mistake," Lecter said evenly. "I have not sought after an occupation at your asylum."

"I realize this is an unsolicited offer, Dr. Lecter," Crane replied, his voice as sleek as ever, "and I apologize for the spontaneity of our conversation." He cleared his throat, and for the first time Lecter detected a chink in his armor; a nervous tick, evidence of a time when he was more hesitant and less powerful, a habit that he had undoubtedly attempted—but ultimately been unable—to smother. "Perhaps I should explain myself. We recently suffered a loss amongst our staff when one of our more..._theatrical_ patients assaulted them during a routine therapy session. I'll spare you the gruesome details, but suffice to say that they will be unable to return to work and we are now short a psychiatrist."

"I'm terribly sorry," Lecter said, somewhat disappointed that Crane had chosen to skip over what would have assuredly been an interesting story.

"That's very kind of you. I realize that I've hardly portrayed Arkham as appealing, but I find honesty is the best approach in situations like this, don't you?"

"I've encountered violent patients before, Dr. Crane."

"Forgive me for being presumptuous, Dr. Lecter, but I very much doubt that you have encountered anything like the inmates of Arkham Asylum." Crane spoke without any trace of arrogance or rudeness, and Lecter was intrigued rather than offended.

"Admittedly, this sort of..._incident _occurs quite often at Arkham, and as a result we have experienced a great deal of difficulty in acquiring a new qualified psychiatrist to fill the role our previous colleague left behind. Our asylum has a rather notorious reputation, you see, and to be perfectly honest with you people are _scared _to work here.

"And _that_ is why I contacted you, Dr. Lecter," Crane said bluntly, as if he no longer felt he had anything to lose by being candid. "I am well aware that you are not seeking employment and are otherwise preoccupied with your own practice, but I believe that your talents would be put to excellent use at Arkham Asylum."

"I am honored that you considered me for the position, Dr. Crane, but I'm afraid that I could not possibly accept your offer. However, I would be happy to give the number of a highly qualified—"

"You and I both know they could not possibly have the insight that you do," Crane said flatly.

There it was again—that _strangeness_.

"I beg your pardon?"

"As I mentioned earlier, I've read a great deal of your published work," Crane continued. "Almost everything you've written, in fact. And I find your perception of the criminally insane—yes, I know you're not fond of the term, but for the sake of brevity please excuse my astounding faux pas—to be incredibly astute. I dare say I'd even call it _intuitive_."

Lecter wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, contemplating his next step. He had been right to not underestimate Crane. Although he highly doubted that the man knew the specifics of his transgressions, he was certainly implying that he knew _something_, and that was enough for Lecter to find troublesome.

Troublesome, but not concerning. He did not believe that Crane was interested in any sort of tedious ulterior motive like blackmail, and if he found it even more unlikely that he wished to involve the police—after all, why send the letter in the first place if his only goal was to see Lecter imprisoned? He had not been threatening, nor had he acted as if he possessed the slightest bit of desire to bring Lecter harm; frankly, he had sounded sincere in his offer. Lecter was skilled in the art of lying, both in delivering and detecting, and he had not observed any trait of outright dishonesty in Crane's voice or words.

Still, better to play it safe.

"I don't understand, Dr. Crane," Lecter said simply.

There was silence, and for a moment Lecter thought that Crane had hung up the phone; when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and matter-of-fact, yet as genuinely cordial as ever.

"Don't be insulting, Dr. Lecter," Crane said pleasantly. "I truly hope you will consider my offer, and if you would like to discuss the matter further then please do not hesitate to call me. Have a good evening."

There was a sudden click, followed by the dull sound of a dial tone signaling the end of the call. Lecter placed the receiver on its cradle, his brain swimming with possibilities and thoughts; as potentially vexing as the situation one was, he still found it rather exciting. For quite some time, he had been fighting to keep the slow crawl of boredom at bay through numerous means of amusement—dinner parties, the opera, and countless museum visits had at first been a source of joy, but eventually lost their charm. Even his excursions into the unconventional grew stale, and the manipulation of flesh into art no longer satisfied him as it had in the past. He craved constant stimulation, and in a gray world it was becoming more and more difficult to be fulfilled.

Perhaps this was a gift rather than an annoyance; an abrupt arrival of uncertainty to break up the monotony he so dreaded. He still had much to learn about Crane, but he was certain that the man was far from boring—and that was enough for Lecter.

He considered his options, and decided that he would call the next day.


End file.
